Page 33 of What Remains of Grace

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Emmie took the car out for a drive, too excited to let it sit in the driveway, and the quiet that settled over the house gave Jenna no more excuses to avoid Grace’s office.

She went in there, meaning to look for the title folder and insurance papers.

She didn’t mean to find the yearbooks, but as soon as she spotted them, her pulse quickened.

They were stacked on the bottom shelf, under old church directories and a binder labeled “Hellas—wholesale pricing.” Grace had kept everything. Jenna pulled out the one from Grace’s graduating year and carried it to the desk, dust motes lifting in the slanted afternoon light.

She hadn’t opened one of these in . . . what, fifteen years?

She flipped past the posed senior portraits, the too-dark eyeliner, the boys in oversized polos. Her face showed up on a spread about clubs—Yearbook Staff—there she was, younger, eyes bright with the kind of optimism that hadn’t met real loss yet.

She barely recognized herself. She kept turning.

Grace was in there twice as much as Jenna was, in the culinary program and veterinary science, and there was a photo of her holding a goat and laughing with her whole face. She looked for Manny in the FFA section but remembered that he had graduated before Grace.

They had such a tough time being away from each other that year. Grace had no idea how hard things would get just a few short years later. It shouldn’t have been this way.

The thought hit Jenna hard. Emmie should’ve had that same carefree senior year that ended with her two parents in the bleachers. Two people in the audience. A whole town that knew her last name. Instead, she had . . .her. One aunt, who was trying to figure out how to parent a teenager.

She blew out a breath and flipped to sports. And there he was.

Cole Bennett—Varsity Basketball.

Tall even then, shoulders narrower, arms all length. Grinning like he knew half the gym was watching him. Across the top of the page, in bold varsity font, someone had written Bennett’s Bloodbath, followed by a string of impressive stats.

Bloodbath, not massacre. Catchier.

The caption below mentioned he’d led the district that year. Of course he had. She turned the page and froze.

Someone, probably the AV club or the construction teacher, had put together a little feature on the new concession stand they’d built by the stadium. There were three photos of kids in safety glasses holding nail guns and levels.

In one of them, Cole was shirtless, sweat-slicked, hammer in hand, braces on his teeth, skinny as a rail.

Jenna snorted out a laugh before she could stop herself.

Nothing like the man who’d been in her sister’s bedroom yesterday. This kid was all angles and potential. The man now, he was . . . not that. Broader. Filled out. Solid in a way that made a person feel small standing near him.

She ran her thumb along the edge of the page, amused at the contrast. She’d taken that same construction class her senior year. She’d kept her shirt on, though. She wondered what the yearbook staff had been thinking, letting that photo through. Different times.

She glanced back at his picture in the senior section.

Graduated with honors.

She didn’t remember that part.

“Of course you did,” she murmured to the empty office. “Of course, you were good at everything.”

It shouldn’t have mattered; it was just a high school yearbook, but it made something inside her settle. This wasn’t some random contractor who wandered in with donuts. He’d been showing up, working hard, being steady . . . for decades.

Suddenly, yesterday made more sense.

And maybe it made her . . . flutter a tiny bit less ridiculous. Maybe.

She pulled out her phone and typed a message: Thank you for your kind words yesterday.

Her fingers hovered over the send button. It was innocent enough, right? But she knew it was too warm for the cool air of professionalism. She knew that from a decade of being cold.